


Home and Fear

by hunterinabrowncoat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fear, Gen, Home, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Poetry, poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 09:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13478733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunterinabrowncoat/pseuds/hunterinabrowncoat
Summary: When Sam is given an assignment to write poetry, he pens some things he's never had the chance to say.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: mentions of neglect and abuse.

The first time Sam wrote a poem was in 10th grade. The teacher gave them all a title, and the last twenty minutes of the period to complete the assignment. Sam spent almost every one of those minutes staring blankly at the word on the whiteboard, with eyes glassed-over. What was he supposed to do with  _that_?

He chewed on his pen and wrung his sweaty hands, glancing down despairingly at the blank open page in front of him until the bell rang and school was over.

“Whatever you haven’t finished this lesson will need to be completed for homework. I want your essays and this poem in first thing tomorrow morning.”

The teacher’s words washed over him as everyone filtered out of the classroom and Sam collected up his things. He knew he wouldn’t. He  _couldn’t_. Dad was working on a case and the minute he left school he was supposed to go to the library and resume his research. Even if they miraculously managed to solve the case this afternoon, he still wouldn’t be able to get anything done in that sleezy motel room, with the stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer filling his nose; forced to listen to John and Dean ramble on about their victory.

Sure enough, the following morning Sam traipsed into school; his heavy bag laden with books and papers, but produced no poem. The essay he’d finished last week, thank goodness, but Mrs Taylor was royally unimpressed by the absence of a finished poem, and announced she would be keeping him behind at the end of school to complete his work.

So on a hot Wednesday afternoon, in a room empty, save for the teacher and himself, Sam sat at his desk, staring helplessly at the blank piece of paper in front of him. He knew he’d be in so much trouble when he got home. His father would rip him a new one about being late and ‘wasting precious time’, and wouldn’t listen to excuses about detention.

And then suddenly Sam knew what he wanted to write. He knew that he shouldn’t; that he could stir up a shitstorm with his words once he penned them, but he also knew that he wouldn’t be here tomorrow for the fallout. The case seemed to be moving west, so they would be too, and damn if he wasn’t going to leave a tempest in his wake.

Sam took a deep breath, and penned the title he’d been given - ’ **Home** ’. He underlined it twice, then closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself one peaceful second - the calm before the storm. When he opened his eyes again, the pen hit the page, scratching furiously away like a dagger on ice, and words flowed from his mind, unchecked, unchallenged and finally unleashed.

> _When you can smell blood and bone;_
> 
> _Tooth and claw_
> 
> _And the faint scent of drunkenness_
> 
> _Then you know:_
> 
> _You are home._
> 
> _–_
> 
> _Home is loud fights,_
> 
> _broken bottles,_
> 
> _the roar of an engine too old for this shit_
> 
> _Home is microwave meals,_
> 
> _cheap motels, and_
> 
> _stolen comic books_
> 
> _Home is shooting cans in a back yard that doesn’t belong to you_
> 
> _It’s long days,_
> 
> _heavy reading,_
> 
> _too much pressure_
> 
> _“Not good enough Sammy"_
> 
> _–_
> 
> _When you are confused,_
> 
> _When you don’t know what’s going on_
> 
> _Because everything about your life_
> 
> _Is shrouded in secret_
> 
> _When you feel left out of a loop_
> 
> _That could have saved your life_
> 
> _Then you know:_
> 
> _You are home._
> 
> _–_
> 
> _When you feel the kiss of your brother’s lips_
> 
> _Against your forehead_
> 
> _And you wish so desperately_
> 
> _They were your mother’s,_
> 
> _When you are choked by his aftershave_
> 
> _And wonder what she smelled like,_
> 
> _When you cry yourself to sleep_
> 
> _And wonder what song she would have sung to you sleep with;_
> 
> _How her arms would have felt wrapped around you,_
> 
> _When you wish you could have known her_
> 
> _Then you know:_
> 
> _You are home._
> 
> _–_
> 
> _When you feel the dread and shame_
> 
> _Of another town, left to the dust_
> 
> _As you move on - another place, another case, another life;_
> 
> _No looking back_
> 
> _Then you know:_
> 
> _You are home._
> 
> _-_
> 
> _When you can feel your throat, sore and dry_
> 
> _From screaming so loud;_
> 
> _A shouting match with words that hit home like stakes to the heart,_
> 
> _“You are a disgrace to this family”:_
> 
> _A right-hook to your jaw._
> 
> _It leaves you speechless._
> 
> _“You can’t ever be normal, Sam. Get used to it.”:_
> 
> _A swinging hit._
> 
> _“Why can’t you be more like your brother?”_
> 
> _The final blow._
> 
> _You fall to the ground._
> 
> _Now you know:_
> 
> _You are home._
> 
> _-_
> 
> _When Dad doesn’t come home for Christmas,_
> 
> _When your Thanksgiving dinner is leftover fast-food from last night,_
> 
> _When you forget that it’s your birthday_
> 
> _Because it’s been so long since you celebrated it;_
> 
> _A stale muffin and cheap candles are not a joyful occasion_
> 
> _Nobody is happy._
> 
> _And you know deep down_
> 
> _They would like to forget you were born,_
> 
> _When you wish that you were never born_
> 
> _Then you know:_
> 
> _You are home._
> 
> _-_
> 
> _Home is guilt_
> 
> _Home is gut-wrenching fear_
> 
> _It’s shame,_
> 
> _inadequacy,_
> 
> _loneliness,_
> 
> _and sleepless nights_
> 
> _-_
> 
> _When nobody bothers to ask you_
> 
> _If you are happy here;_
> 
> _When nobody cares what you might want;_
> 
> _When you feel afraid to ask_
> 
> _If you are allowed go study now_
> 
> _Then you know:_
> 
> _You are home._
> 
> _-_
> 
> _When your greatest sin_
> 
> _Was asking if mom would have wanted this_
> 
> _Was asking to stay just one more night because_
> 
> _You’ve made friends here,_
> 
> _Was loving the ordinary,_
> 
> _Wanting to be safe_
> 
> _Then you know:_
> 
> _You are home._
> 
> _-_
> 
> _When you tell Dad that you are still_
> 
> _Afraid of the dark_
> 
> _And he gives you his gun,_
> 
> _Tells you that you are old enough to fight the things_
> 
> _That hide in the dark_
> 
> _On your own now_
> 
> _Then you know:_
> 
> _You are home._
> 
> _-_
> 
> _When you feel like a stranger_
> 
> _To your own flesh and blood_
> 
> _Then you know:_
> 
> _You are home._
> 
> _-_
> 
> _When you feel like a traitor_
> 
> _For even daring to think_
> 
> _That there could be a life_
> 
> _Other than this_
> 
> _Better than this_
> 
> _Then you know:_
> 
> _You are home._
> 
> _-_
> 
> _When you are running for your life,_
> 
> _When you are fixing up a knife-wound,_
> 
> _When you are on fighting for your father’s war;_
> 
> _A three-person army up against the world…_
> 
> _You never asked for this_
> 
> _When you are running into burning buildings_
> 
> _For all the people monsters left behind,_
> 
> _Then you know:_
> 
> _You are home._
> 
> _-_
> 
> _When you fall asleep in the back of the car;_
> 
> _Slumped over your assignment_
> 
> _For a teacher you’ll never see again_
> 
> _When you awake to the humming of Metallica,_
> 
> _And the smell of cheap gas-station food:_
> 
> _Breakfast _. Or is it dinner?__
> 
> _When you open those squeaky doors_
> 
> _And step out into a brand new place_
> 
> _Then you know:_
> 
> _You are home now._
> 
> -
> 
> _This is your home now._
> 
> _Until isn’t anymore._

Sam’s pen finally left the page, over an hour after he’d begun. He walked silently to the front of the class and handed it to the teacher, who thanked him, smiled, then put it atop a pile of other papers. She was busy - she’d mark it later.

When she finally did read it, that evening, Sam was sitting comfortably in the back seat of the Impala, blazing along the highway with his head rested against the window, nose buried in another book. He didn’t see the horror that contorted her face as she read through his work; he didn’t see the tears that swam in her eyes or the way she put her hands to her mouth or the sickness she felt in her gut. And he never would. Because that was home - driving away into the distance.


	2. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After realising how much he enjoyed writing about his home, and a particularly bad hunt, he writes another poem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol abuse and domestic abuse.

The second time Sam took to writing poetry was several weeks after he left that town and teacher behind. The thought occurred to him after a particularly upsetting family row. He remembered the rush he’d experienced when he put pen to paper and finally said what he’d been holding in for so long. He remembered the intense feelings; how easily he’d got caught up in the words, as though they’d risen out of the page and wrapped themselves around him. He remembered how good it felt, like exhaling a long, deep sigh that’d been pent up all his life.

He was glad that he didn’t still have it - fuck knows what Dean or John would have done if they’d found it! He liked it best that way: he’d said what he had to say, then simply walked away. He never had to look at it again, never had to face the gut-wrenching emotions he’d brought into the light.

But given everything that had happened in the past few days, Sam was feeling the need to write again. Now that he’d experienced the release that poetry had given him, he yearned for the high a second time. His desperation to find that feeling that writing had given him was less of a chase, and more of an itch; something in your skin that you can’t help but touch. And then you  _have_  to scratch, only it itches more and you have to keep going. Writing would always be like that for Sam - one poem after another, never able to sully satisfy the need for more, but damn it feels  _so good_.

So, picking up a pencil and pad of paper, Sam stormed out of the house, heading in no particular direction whatsoever. When he eventually found himself walking alongside a canal, he sat down, peering curiously into the water, and began to write.

He stuck to what he knew, what he’d done before. He started with the title - ’ **Fear** ’, took a deep breath, and went from there.

> _Fear is eyes open wide in the dead of the night:_
> 
> _Something moved_
> 
> _Fear is when your big brother tells you it’s okay,_
> 
> _And Dad promises the monsters aren’t in you room;_
> 
> _They’re outside_
> 
> _Fear is every sound of the sheets rustling as your brother turns_
> 
> _It’s every howl of the wind_
> 
> _It’s every movement and shadow,_
> 
> _Every imagine your mind can conjure up_
> 
> _Because you know,_
> 
> _You **know**  it’s all real._
> 
> _-_
> 
> _Fear is the pain in your chest,_
> 
> _When dad walks through the door,_
> 
> _And you can smell the whiskey on him_
> 
> _Fear is the way you flinch_
> 
> _Fear is staring at the floor,_
> 
> _Closing your eyes,_
> 
> _Praying that your can escape to your room_
> 
> _Without another shouting match_
> 
> _-_
> 
> _Fear is the .45 stashed under your pillow,_
> 
> _It’s the knife you keep in your bedside draw,_
> 
> _And_ _the shotgun you know hides under the sink_
> 
> _Fear is reaching for it in the night_
> 
> _When you hear a noise_
> 
> _You’re 15 years old._
> 
> _Fear is what you should feel_
> 
> _When you see a gun._
> 
> _-_
> 
> _Fear is the tightness in your chest,_
> 
> _When you walk through the doors of a new school;_
> 
> _Another town, another crowd of people_
> 
> _You will never be allowed to know_
> 
> _“We’re not like them Sammy”_
> 
> _“It’s a freedom we can’t afford.”_
> 
> _Fear is the burning knot in your stomach,_
> 
> _When you introduce yourself to another class_
> 
> _Knowing that you will have to leave tomorrow without a goodbye_
> 
> _You should be used to this by now;_
> 
> _You’ve lost count_
> 
> _-_
> 
> _Fear is the dead weight,_
> 
> _That sits in your gut;_
> 
> _It’s the twisting and the turning_
> 
> _It’s the way you can’t sit still;_
> 
> _You have to do something, occupy yourself_
> 
> _Make yourself forget_
> 
> _Because fear is remembering that they were supposed to be back yesterday_
> 
> _-_
> 
> _Fear is holding your breath,_
> 
> _When you hear footsteps at your door_
> 
> _It’s the prayer you pray,_
> 
> _Hoping that he’ll think you’re asleep_
> 
> _-_
> 
> _Fear is the searing pain in your broken leg_
> 
> _As it pushes down on the gas pedal_
> 
> _Fear is every swerve of a car you’ve never driven before_
> 
> _It’s every bump in the road as your dad tells you_
> 
> _“Faster!”_
> 
> _Fear is daring to look in the mirror_
> 
> _And seeing them both_
> 
> _So bloody._
> 
> _So broken._
> 
> _Fear is the trembling of your body,_
> 
> _And the blinding pain_
> 
> _As you stumble into the ER_
> 
> _It’s every beat of your heart dancing in your chest,_
> 
> _Fighting against your broken ribs_
> 
> _Fear is begging_
> 
> _Please._
> 
> _Please let them be okay_
> 
> _-_
> 
> _Fear is helplessness_
> 
> _It’s staring straight into your dad’s eyes_
> 
> _When he tells you with slurred words and sunken eyes_
> 
> _That he never should have done this_
> 
> _That you and your brother would be better off without him_
> 
> _Fear is taking his gun from him_
> 
> _Because you don’t know what else to do_
> 
> _You’ve never heard him talk like that_
> 
> _You’ve never seen him cry_
> 
> _And now he’s calling her name_
> 
> _“Mary… oh Mary what have I done? I’m so sorry, Mary…”_
> 
> _And it chills to the bone_
> 
> _Fear is stay up all night_
> 
> _So you don’t have to wonder if he will swallow a bullet_
> 
> _While you are in bed_
> 
> _-_
> 
> _Fear is the stubborn tears on your cheeks_
> 
> _When you stand alone in the darkness_
> 
> _It’s the sweat that makes the grip of your gun slip_
> 
> _As you call out into the black_
> 
> _“Dean?”_
> 
> _Fear is the silence that follows_
> 
> _It’s the cold chill you feel in your spine_
> 
> _When you hear the growl_
> 
> _Fear is the sickness you feel - right to your core_
> 
> _When you realise this was the plan_
> 
> _When you realise that you are fucking bait._

Angry tears stained his cheeks by the time he was done. Wiping them fiercely away, he set about editing the finished product - tweaking phrases here and there, adding words, changing grammar. Eventually, when he was satisfied, as the sun began to dip behind the tree-line and his lighting dwindled, Sam stood up and tossed the pages into the canal.

He stood for some time, staring blankly as the paper floated pathetically away. The sun set beyond the horizon and darkness crept in. As unease about being alone, out here in the dark, settled in, Sam knew it was time to head back.

He was still angry. He was still upset, and justifiably so; but having written it all down and thrown it away, he felt considerably better. He’d said all he had to say. Now it was time to move on. After all - it was only a matter of time before he’d feel the need to write again.


End file.
